The Whitechapel Martyrs
by Madam Torsion
Summary: The gruesome murder of a priest leads the detectives of Whitechapel in another search through the historical record and leads DI Joseph Chandler to reconsider his personal life in the wake of Morgan Lamb's death. Rated M, Chandler/OC.
1. 27 October

This is my first Whitechapel story. I don't have much in the way of preliminary remarks. For the purposes of this story, I've made Buchan Catholic. It is not incredibly important, but in case he says otherwise in the show, then just know that I've made that change myself. As far as I can remember, he mentions that he went to see his mother sing in a choir at her church in the second episode of the first series, but he doesn't elaborate more than that. It's not a terribly important point, but one I wanted to preemptively explain in case I missed the official line.

I hope you enjoy the story and please review no matter the case! Rated M for now, may go up to MA in future chapters.

* * *

He was absolutely gorgeous, there was certainly no denying that. There was something off about him, though. She watched as he fiddled with his tie, smoothed his waistcoat, and ran his hand over his hair in quick succession. And then proceeded to do it again. Maybe it was a nervous habit. He took a small jar out of his pocket, dipped a finger in it, and rubbed something on his temples. He seemed to calm after that. Odd man.

He was turning toward her now. Introducing himself. She tried to not look like she'd just sized him up and found him so very strange. That would probably only make him more nervous. She shuddered to think what that would look like.

"I am DI Chandler, this is DS Miles," he said in what she had to admit was a terribly pleasant voice. He gestured to the older man standing next to him and then extended his hand.

She shook it obligingly and gave him a tight smile. She was not expecting to receive good news.

"You are Ms. Parker, correct?"

She nodded.

"Doctor, actually, but it doesn't matter. Emma, please," she answered.

"You are a doctor and a secretary?"

"Second in command is probably a better way to describe it. Not a medical doctor, though. I have a PhD. I am Monsignor Garnet's assistant. I've been holding the fort since he disappeared." She stopped speaking abruptly. She knew she was rambling, trying to delay the inevitable.

Chandler nodded his understanding and looked to Miles before turning back to her.

"Would you mind following me?" Chandler asked, turning to gesture toward what Emma presumed to be his office.

"Of course," she said softly, following the pair of detectives through the rows of desks.

"Please have a seat," said Chandler as he closed the door. Miles remained standing while he sat behind his desk. "I need you to identify something for me."

"Anything," Emma said immediately, beginning to hope that they may have found her boss.

Chandler pulled a plastic evidence bag out of a box on the floor next to his chair. He placed it on the desk and slid it toward her.

"Do you recognize this?"

Emma picked up the bag and studied the item inside.

"This is Monsignor Garnet's pocket watch," she said slowly, recognizing the distinctive timepiece. "Where did you find it?"

"With…the body," Chandler answered, almost reluctantly.

There was a kind of muffled ringing in her ears.

"Wh – erm – wh –," her shallow breaths were making it hard to speak. "What body?"

"I am sorry to have to tell you that Monsignor Garnet has been killed," Chandler explained.

Emma shook her head.

"What do you mean 'been killed'? Someone – you mean – he was _murdered_?"

Chandler nodded. Emma sat in silence for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts.

"Has, um – has the archbishop been told? He should have been told before me."

"Not yet," Chandler answered carefully. "You filed the missing persons report and we couldn't find any family."

Emma nodded absentmindedly. The priest's family was virtually non-existent. His parents were long dead and his older brother had recently died after a long battle with cancer. No other siblings and no nieces or nephews. Little wonder, then, that he and Emma had been so close. He had no one else.

"What happened to him? Was it a mugging gone wrong?" She wasn't intimately acquainted with the Whitechapel area, but could not be ignorant of its reputation.

Chandler looked again to Miles.

"Difficult to say," the older man spoke for the first time. Clearly he was the native.

"What do you mean, difficult to say?" Emma almost demanded, the pitch of her voice climbing. "You found him! How you can say he was murdered if you have no idea how he died?"

"Well, that is to say, we have _some_ idea," Chandler insisted quietly, trying to defuse Emma's temper. She supposed it was something they dealt with every day. "It isn't – it isn't very pleasant."

"Is there a particularly pleasant way to be murdered?" Emma countered.

Chandler folded his hands on his desk, resisting the urge to engage her anger.

Emma angrily wiped away a tear. She knew the grieving was inevitable, but she needed to hold it off until she found out what happened.

"She'll find out from the papers anyway," Miles said to Chandler, who cleared his throat and nodded.

"It appears that he was – ah – dismembered."

Emma's vision swam before her eyes. She rather wished she hadn't asked at all. The tears were falling thick and fast now and as she sniffed, a handkerchief appeared before her eyes. She looked up to find Chandler leaning over his desk to hand it to her.

"Thank you," she said thickly, gratefully taking the piece of white cloth. She dabbed at her eyes and cheeks, vaguely hoping her mascara hadn't run down her face. It was a stupid thing to think at such a time and she chastised herself for it.

Chandler watched the young woman compose herself. He'd had to take a moment himself after his preliminary investigation. The crime scene had been brutal, even by Whitechapel standards. Crime scenes, he should say. The four pieces of the body, which themselves had been mutilated, in addition to the head had been distributed throughout the district. It was only by luck that they had collected everything before something vital had been carried off by scavengers. They hadn't known the man was a priest before connecting him to the description provided by Emma. They still didn't know if it was relevant. Given his position and the highly unusual manner of death, it seemed unlikely that it wasn't.

"Is there anything you need from me? Any questions you need to ask?" Emma asked finally, placing the handkerchief on the corner of Chandler's desk.

"Do you know anyone who would want to harm Monsignor Garnet?"

Emma shook her head forcefully.

"No," she said insistently. "I mean, there were minor tiffs in the journals, but what scholar doesn't have those?"

"The journals?" Miles asked.

"Oh, um, academic journals, I mean," she explained. "He was the director of the Liturgy Office. He published regularly in theology journals. The kinds of people who publish in those will certainly trade insults, but they're almost always based in some kind of valid criticism and it's generally never more than sarcastic remarks in a footnote. There was never anything personal. He was well-liked."

"Would he have had business in Whitechapel?"

"We had business all over the diocese. The Liturgy Office is in charge of worship for the entire country. I would have to check his diary to see if he had anything particular here. His personal assistant usually kept track of that."

"I thought you were his assistant," said Miles, taking the seat next to hers.

"Not really," she said. "I am one of two assistant directors, so I fulfill a lot of the same responsibilities as he does. There are just too many requests for training and resources and he can't do it all himself."

Emma paused for a moment.

"_Did_, I should say," she muttered, once more reminded of the terrible reality.

She was stirred from her reverie when Chandler moved suddenly, reaching his hand into his jacket.

"I'm going to give you my card," he explained as he began to write on the back. "My mobile number is on the back if you remember anything else. You may want to warn his secretary that we'll be wanting a word."

"Of course," replied Emma, sliding the card into her wallet. She rose from her seat. "Is there anything else?"

Chandler shook his head and stepped around his desk and moved to open the door for her. She nodded her thanks and walked rather quickly toward the main door. She wasn't sorry to be leaving. Before either he or Miles could deflect her attention away from the whiteboard at the end of the room, Emma had already stopped in her tracks. She was horrified at the photos of the crime scenes, bloody limbs and all, taped underneath the neatly printed name: WILLIAM GARNET. She slowly approached the board, her fingers lightly touching the photo the medical examiner had taken of his face, the bloody stump that was left of his neck carefully cropped out.

"What did they do to him?" Emma whispered, her hand over her mouth.

"You don't want to be looking at these," said Miles, gently, but forcefully, guiding her out of the room.

She looked to Miles and then back to Chandler.

"What did they do to him?" She asked again, more insistent. "God, it looks like he was drawn and quartered."

Chandler's eyes took on a glint of interest. Miles never liked it when he got that look.

"What did you say?"

"His body – it wasn't just dismembered," she said, swallowing the bile. "He was disemboweled _and_ quartered. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that it was the prescribed execution for those convicted of treason through the nineteenth century. It's what they did to the English martyrs."

Emma let herself slide willingly into her historian voice; anything to distance herself from the present.

"Who are the English martyrs?" Chandler asked, genuinely interested now. Perhaps this was their precedent?

Miles heaved a sigh. Emma heard him mutter something about never introducing her to someone named Buchan. She turned her attention back to the eager man in front of her. Ignoring reality really was for the best, she decided, as she realized once again how very attractive DI Chandler was.

"They were mostly priests and religious who were hanged, drawn, and quartered for high treason throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries," Emma explained. "Forty have been canonized, but there are about a hundred and fifty more who have been either formally beatified or whose venerations are approved."

"Forty?" Chandler asked, sounding vaguely worried. Before Emma could question him, he spoke again. "Do you have a card I could have? In case I need to contact you again and don't have the file readily available."

"Yes, of course," said Emma, reaching into her bag for her card case. She pulled out a pen and scribbled a number on the back. "And my mobile, as well."

"Thank you."

"Yes, well, I should be getting back. I need to tell the archbishop what's happened," Emma said with a sigh.

"I will be in touch," said Chandler, already turning back toward the squad room. He looked back to see that Emma was already half way down the stairs. He certainly didn't blame her for wanting to put distance between herself and this place.

"And what kind of historical copycat have we got now?" Miles asked with a long suffering sigh.

"I am not looking for copycats, Miles," answered Chandler wearily. He really needed to do something about that reputation. "I need to talk to Dr. Llewellyn. There is a chance she missed something in the autopsy."

Chandler walked back to his office to grab his watch and phone before heading back out toward the staircase down to the medical examiner's office.

"Kent," Chandler called upon reaching the squad room door. "Phone Ed and tell him to put together all the information he can on the English martyrs."

"Sir?" Kent asked, though his hand already was on the phone's receiver. The young man was loyal almost to a fault.

Chandler shook his head. Buchan would know what he meant, no use wasting time explaining something he knew nothing about. He'd only half understood Emma's explanation, but the number forty had certainly caught his attention.

Caroline Llewellyn was never short of work as a medical examiner in Whitechapel. But even with everything she'd seen, the remains of William Garnet remained to be among the worst. She had spent two days on the report and still had not been able to come to a conclusion for cause of death. Too much had been done to the body to determine with any certainty what had finally finished the poor man off.

"Caroline, darlin', how're you doing?" Miles said as he entered autopsy, Chandler following just behind.

"If you're coming for answers, Ray, I don't have any yet," she said with a sigh.

"Did you happen to notice any ligature marks on his neck?" Chandler asked without greeting, focused as he was on trying to avert his eyes from the remains without anyone noticing he was doing so.

"There isn't much left of it thanks to the multiple blows of the axe used to decapitate him, but I can have another look," said Llewellyn, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves.

She and Ray leaned over to examine the head while Chandler remained rooted near the door. He stood with his hands tightly clasped behind his back, resisting the urge to fiddle with his cufflinks. Though he had tried to continue to wear the rubber band Morgan had given him before she was killed, its efficacy had been destroyed upon her death. Rather than reminding him to step back from his control issues, it simply reminded him of her and how her death had happened in his own station while she was under his protection. If anything, it had come to symbolize what happened when he relinquished control. He certainly didn't need any reminders of that.

"I think there might be something here," Llewellyn said, pulling Chandler out of his morose memories.

"The woman who reported him missing said it looked like he'd been drawn and quartered," Chandler explained. "Does that fit the evidence?"

Llewellyn looked pensive for a moment before returning her attention to the remains.

"It would certainly explain the mutilation," she said, gesturing to the torso. "At first glance, it just looks like gutting, but drawing is specifically emasculation and disemboweling. It would have occurred while he was still alive."

Chandler gaped at her. Llewellyn nodded back at the unspoken question.

"The lack of severe ligature marks around the neck suggests that he was not hung for very long, which fits the pattern. A person was hanged and then cut down before dead, emasculated and disemboweled while still alive, and only then were they beheaded before being quartered."

Miles spoke first.

"Emasculated?" He asked, sounding like he didn't really want to know the specifics.

"In contrast to castration, emasculation is the complete removal of the genitals," said Llewellyn. "Which is what we have in this case."

"Could he have been a paedo?" Miles asked Chandler. "Maybe it was revenge."

Chandler shook his head.

"I don't think so," he said thoughtfully. "Emma said this manner of death was reserved for those convicted of high treason. If it had been sexually motivated, the killer likely would have only emasculated him, rather than go through the whole process of hanging, drawing, and quartering. But we'll look into it. It wouldn't be the first time a killer tried to hide their primary motivations in other methods."

"Emma, is it?" Miles joked. Of course he would latch onto that.

Chandler grimaced at him.

"It's what she told us to call her," he said sourly. The woman was certainly attractive, but his track record spoke for itself. No use courting trouble when plenty found him on its own initiative. "Thanks, Caroline."

"I should be thanking you," said Llewellyn with a laugh. "I'll be able to finish this report now."

Kent met Chandler and Miles on the main landing, Buchan in tow.

"I don't have any modern case history for you, Joe, but there are descriptions of this type of execution in the archive," Buchan stated without preamble, for once. "There are also descriptions of the martyrs themselves, though it is primarily in religious literature."

"Shall we?" Chandler asked, already turning around to go back down the stairs.

"Oh yes, of course," said Buchan, hurrying to catch up.

Chandler stopped and turned to look back at Miles and Kent.

"Miles," said Chandler. "Look into Garnet's background. Just to rule out…anything."

Miles nodded, wisely remaining silent on the matter. Chandler didn't want to get any rumors started if there was nothing in the victim's past to warrant it. The press would run with the story like an untrained dog if they detected even the mere suggestion of it.

"Am I to understand that the young woman who came in today is Dr. Emma Parker?" Buchan asked almost breathlessly as they descended the stairs to the basement.

Chandler stopped and glanced sideways at Buchan, who looked almost sheepish in response.

"Dr. Parker did a talk at my mother's church," he explained quickly. "She is quite something."

Chandler gave a non-committal hum in response and resumed the descent. He didn't particularly want to hear her praises sung. Not that he had anything against the woman, but he remembered what had happened after he'd done the same to Morgan.

"Yes," Buchan continued, oblivious to Chandler's discomfort. "It was on religious practices in the Restoration period. Fascinating, of course, what with Charles II's close association with Catholics and Parliament's continued refusal to even consider toleration legislation."

Against his better judgment, he was interested.

"I thought she worked in the Liturgy Office," he said, remembering clearly that she'd said she was the assistant director. He still wasn't quite sure what the Liturgy Office did, but he was sure that was what she'd said.

"Yes, yes she does," Buchan said with an enthusiastic nod. "She's also interested in history, so she often combines the two. Very sharp."

"_Often?"_

Buchan again looked slightly embarrassed.

"I may have read an article or two she's written. Gone to a few talks," he said, cheeks red.

Could it be possible? Did Buchan have a crush? Chandler didn't tease him, though. That was one thing that certainly united the two men. Both were too easily embarrassed, especially when it came to such things as women. Chandler knew the public perception of the hyper-masculine world of the police force, and knew that to a certain extent it was true; especially in East London. But he had never been able to join in on the boasting and graphic stories of sexual prowess. Thankfully, those who worked closest with him were either men like Buchan and Kent, who seemed to have no such stories, or Miles and Mansell, who knew him well enough to not do it in front of him.

"Well," Buchan said, clearing his throat. He was more comfortable back in his archive. "As to the martyrs. She said there were forty, correct?"

Chandler nodded.

"She said forty were canonized," Chandler clarified, not entirely sure what the difference was. He knew it meant they were saints, but any more than that was unclear.

"Yes, she would make that distinction," Buchan replied, sounding almost smug on her behalf. "There were, overall, more than three times as many as that who were killed in the period we're talking about, but not all have become saints."

"She said the others were – em – beatified." Chandler knew even less about what that meant.

"Beatification is the step before canonization," Buchan explained. "And others still have had their veneration approved, but have not been beatified. By that, it means that places – usually shrines or locations significant in the martyrs' lives – where there is an established practice of veneration receives official approval for continued veneration. To put it simply, it means that the Church recognizes the importance of the martyr to the local community, even though sainthood is not on the table."

"How does all of this apply to our case?"

"I think you will find it interesting that our victim shares a surname with one of the canonized forty," Buchan began in that storytelling voice he was so fond of. "Father Thomas Garnet was a Jesuit priest, the nephew of the Jesuit superior, Henry Garnet. Young Thomas had quite an adventurous life during his education and early days as a priest. He was captured once while trying to cross the Channel from Calais to England, imprisoned, and subsequently released. Shortly after the Gunpowder Plot, he was again arrested. This time, he was tortured for information about his uncle, who was so centrally implicated in the treason and who was eventually executed for his supposed participation. After more than half a year in the Tower, he was exiled to Flanders."

Buchan was so thoroughly involved in the narrative now that he likely would have continued even if Chandler had left the room.

"But did he stay away? Oh no, not our young Thomas. He returned to England a year later, but his freedom on English soil did not last long. Not six weeks after his return, he was arrested by an apostate priest. Father Garnet was offered the choice of taking the Oath of Allegiance to King James I or execution. I am sure, Joe, you can guess which he chose."

Chandler raised an eyebrow at his archivist, but remained silent. Buchan had a tendency to get annoyed if people actually answered his rhetorical questions.

"Father Garnet, aged just 32, was put to death at Tyburn in 1608 for high treason. Hanged, drawn, and quartered; just like our own Monsignor Garnet," Buchan finally finished. "I might also add that the date on which Monsignor Garnet was murdered, the twenty-fifth of October, is the feast day of the English martyrs."

"Are there any other significant dates for these martyrs?" Chandler asked.

Buchan shook his head.

"Not in the coming weeks, at least," he said. "The next memorial day in the calendar is the first of December. Other than that, there may be individual anniversaries of executions, but nothing that is officially celebrated."

"Okay," said Chandler, only slightly relieved. "Put together a list of all the dates you can find. And find out if _our_ Garnet is in any way related to the original. If any of the other martyrs have descendants who are Catholic, it would be good to know."

"I am on the case, Joe," said Buchan dutifully. He looked apprehensive for a moment. "Um, Joe, if Dr. Parker comes back in, could you…"

Chandler smiled.

"I will be sure to bring her down here."

Buchan smiled back broadly and very nearly skipped back to his desk. There was certainly a bounce there.

Chandler walked a little more slowly than usual up the stairs to the squad room, allowing himself to get lost in thought on the way. There was a lot to think about where the case was concerned, to be sure, but that wasn't the direction his thoughts were going in. He was thinking about the woman that had put Buchan in such a tizzy. It wasn't hard to imagine how that could happen, and not just to Buchan, but to any man. He found himself…not immune to Emma Parker. Try as he might, God knows. She was smart enough to have greatly impressed Ed Buchnan who was, as naïve and awkward as he might be, easily one of the most intelligent men Chandler knew. And she was certainly a sight for sore eyes; fair, clear skin, bright green eyes, impossibly red hair. She dressed well, too. He of all people knew bespoke tailoring when he saw it. Her tailor _definitely_ knew how to play to her strengths…

"Joe!" Miles yelled, standing directly in front of him.

Chandler jumped at the sound and proximity. He must have let himself get a little too carried away with his musings. Well, that wouldn't do at all. Loss of control was not something he usually allowed, especially not now. He knew where it led. Whitechapel didn't need any more martyrs than it had already claimed.


	2. 30 October

Fun with London geography in this chapter. I only lived there for a few months and the East End was not exactly my stomping grounds, but I'm relatively sure I've got it mapped out correctly for my purposes. All of the churches named are real and they were all chosen for very specific reasons. I mention, for example, that Msgr. Garnet had at one time been assigned to St. Mary's in Chelsea. While this isn't a plot point, St. Mary's is, in reality, famous in the diocese for its music. So, what better place for a budding liturgist to be assigned?

I hope you continue to enjoy the story. I'm certainly enjoying writing it. Please review, critiques are welcome!

* * *

Breaking the news about Monsignor Garnet to the archbishop had gone just as bad as Emma had expected. The two had gone to seminary together and had practically known each other since childhood. He hadn't taken it particularly well. They weren't quite old enough to be in that age group where the death of peers became routine. Emma did not tell him the precise circumstances of the murder, but knew she would have to rather sooner than she hoped. There could be no open casket and she would have to explain why it wasn't possible when Monsignor Garnet had asked for an open casket wake in his will. Perhaps she could come up with some excuse for why the casket would have to be closed before the day. Blaming the autopsy seemed the best escape route at the moment.

The day after her conversation with the archbishop, Emma had been informed that she was to be elevated to director of the Liturgy Office. It was not a promotion she'd been looking for and she was not convinced it shouldn't have gone to her colleague and former fellow assistant, Father Andrew Ward. He was older and had more experience, but she had the higher degree. It was, possibly, the first time in her life that her doctorate had trumped experience. It did little to comfort her.

As a result of this promotion, Emma's workload doubled at a time when those who worked in liturgy were entering one of the busiest times of year. If she wasn't answering questions about what color vestments Father was supposed to wear on All Souls (an annual headache), she was preparing for the onslaught of Advent and Christmastide. This was all in addition to planning the funeral for a popular, some might say beloved, priest who had spent his entire clerical life working in liturgy. This, of course, translated into an expectation that the funeral would be a triumph of liturgical excellence. Emma wasn't sure she was up to task of crafting a singularly transcendent spiritual experience for the mourners. It certainly didn't help that it had been unexpected. Things might have been different had something with a little more warning befallen him.

Emma grimaced and threw her pen down on her desk. She admonished herself for thinking of Monsignor Garnet's murder as an inconvenience. The photos of his remains flashed in her mind once more, as they had done regularly since she saw them three days previous. She closed her eyes tightly and pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. Sleep would have to find her soon if she was going to make it through Christmas. Emma wondered if seeing images like that every day affected the detectives working on the case. Surely they were made of stronger stuff if they had chosen a career like that. Though she wondered about the detective inspector. She pulled his card out of her wallet. Joseph Chandler, that was it. He had seemed out of place.

As she thought back to her initial observations of the anxious detective, she remembered the conversation they'd had before she left. Chandler had seemed concerned when she told him that there were forty canonized martyrs. Surely he didn't think someone was going to try and replicate them all. Emma, of course, knew the story of Thomas Garnet, but other than having the same surname, she rather doubted there was any relation to William Garnet. And if there was, it certainly wasn't a direct lineage to either Thomas _or_ his uncle Henry.

Her mobile ringing and vibrating across her desk jolted her out of her thoughts.

"Dr. Emma Parker," she said, putting the phone to her ear.

"Hello, this is DI Chandler," Chandler said, as if alerted to the direction of her thoughts. His voice really was quite pleasant.

"Yes, what can I do for you, detective inspector?" Emma asked, wondering if that was the proper title for him. It seemed like a mouthful. Was it just "detective"? Or was that a demotion?

"Joe," Chandler offered, neatly solving her dilemma even as he created one for himself. She had said to call her Emma, surely it was just good manners to offer the same. Or so he told himself. "I wanted to ask what may sound like an odd question. Do you know of any relation between Monsignor Garnet and the martyr, Thomas Garnet?"

Emma nearly dropped the phone. That was just…_weird_.

"Not that I know of," she began, her voice shaking slightly. The timing of his question had been eerie. "If there is, it would have to be a distant relation. Thomas Garnet, obviously, had no children."

There was silence on the line.

"J – Joe?" She ventured, not pleased that she stumbled over his name. It wasn't exactly a tongue twister.

"Yes, I'm here," he said, his voice distant, as if he were in thought. "Can you think of any reason why someone would think Monsignor Garnet was guilty of treason? Not that you think he was – but that – that is to say, could someone who wasn't entirely rational come to that conclusion?"

"Someone who isn't entirely rational could come to any conclusion with little cause for doing so," Emma said flatly. "I know this isn't my area, but I would caution against drawing too much out of this martyr connection. You said yourself you didn't know how he –"

"We do," Chandler interrupted. "Hanged, drawn, and quartered. Just like you said."

Emma let out a shaky breath.

"Okay, well, I would still be wary," she continued. "There are similarities, but the differences are also very great. And if someone wanted to recreate the executions, wouldn't they go after Jesuits? I know their reputation as papists has greatly changed since the seventeenth century, but if this person is just killing priests with the same last names, you would have to put half the priests in the country under protection. There's no logic to it."

"I thought we agreed it wasn't entirely rational," said Chandler lightly. Emma could almost swear it_ sounded_ like he was smiling. Was this how detectives flirted? She shook her head. Surely not.

"But there has to be something, some kind of motivation," Emma insisted, not wanting to think about the possibilities. "I mean, the assistant director's last name is Ward, should I tell him to watch his back?"

"It mightn't be a bad idea," Chandler responded honestly.

"You _must_ be joking."

There was a pause on the other end.

"I thought you were the assistant director," said Chandler finally. Was he losing his touch? He was sure she'd said she was one of two assistant directors.

"Oh," said Emma, clearly embarrassed. "I was, um, promoted to director."

"Oh, congratulations," Chandler said enthusiastically, sounding genuinely pleased for her.

Emma didn't know how to respond. She should be proud of her accomplishments. There weren't very many women serving such high posts in the Catholic Church, and certainly not single laywomen. But she hated the circumstances under which it had happened. Had Monsignor Garnet retired and she'd then been promoted, her reaction would have consisted of the pride and elation expected of her. Not like this, though.

"Or is it not such a happy occasion?" Chandler inquired further, seeming to detect her feelings on the matter.

Emma sighed.

"The promotion is…tainted," she said sadly. "It's not that this wasn't what I wanted eventually, _ages_ from now, it's just…"

"Not like this," said Chandler, echoing verbatim her own thoughts.

She paused for a moment before forging ahead.

"Joe, can I ask you a question?" She sounded uncertain, very unlike what he imagined to be her normal authoritative manner.

"Yes, of course," he answered.

"How do you sleep at night?" Emma asked in a small voice.

Chandler knew immediately what she meant. He'd been asked before, but he never had an answer ready. Not an honest one, anyway. He usually ended up deflecting, trying to assure the victim or the family that it would get better. He was tempted to take that escape.

"With difficulty," he said, surprising even himself with the almost brutal honesty of his answer. "Are you…having difficulties?"

Emma sighed again. She quirked her mouth before finally answering.

"Those photos, I can't _not_ see them," she said, her breath hitching. "Any time I'm not focused on what I'm doing, I see them. I can't – I mean, you saw the real thing. I only saw photos. I should be able to deal with this."

"No one should have to deal with this," said Chandler in a soft voice. "None of us is an expert in this. We all have our own mechanisms, but it never goes away."

"What is your mechanism?" Emma asked, knowing full well it was a deeply personal question.

"Order," came Chandler's short reply.

Emma only hummed in response.

"You're not surprised," he said knowingly, slightly embarrassed that his habits were so obvious.

"I'm sorry to say I'm not," Emma admitted. "But I can see how it would help. I am…particular, in my own way."

Chandler was more than pleasantly surprised by her answer. Everyone had different words for it – his team's descriptions were more colorful than most – so it wasn't entirely common to find someone using the same euphemism. He disliked terms like "condition" or "compulsion." Particular at least made it sound like a choice, even if he was fully aware that personal choice had very little to do with much of what he did.

"Sometimes it's little more than organized chaos, but there are little things I will always do a certain way," she further explained. "There is, at least, the _illusion_ of order. But I'm not, you know, checking my locks fifty times a day or anything."

Chandler flinched. He had gotten better recently, but there were some days…

"If I were in a different job, I might not have developed quite so many _particularities_," said Chandler, not knowing why he felt the need to defend himself. "There is a lot to…to keep at bay."

"Why do you do it, then?" She asked.

"I was born into it," Chandler answered simply.

"Yes, but, surely you could have gone into something else," Emma countered, wondering why he would continue to inflict the experience upon himself.

"There was nothing else for me," he responded. "There still isn't, though my initial career trajectory for myself did not involve much time on the street. It's grown on me. It is…fulfilling."

"I suppose that's all anyone can ask," said Emma thoughtfully. "Sometimes I wish my career weren't _quite_ so fulfilling, but this is all I ever wanted to do."

"And what is it, exactly, that you do?" Chandler asked, seizing the opportunity to both shift the conversation away from his own shortcomings and to alleviate his confusion as to her job. He didn't like the feeling.

Emma laughed in response.

"You would be surprised how often I'm asked that question even by practicing Catholics," she said. "We are, essentially, a resource for every diocese and parish in the country. We offer training for those involved in liturgy, guidance on liturgical rubrics, physical resources like sheet music, training manuals; anything to do with the worship life of the Catholic Church in England and Wales, to speak broadly."

"Oh, is that all?" Chandler said with a laugh, though he was impressed with the scope of her duties.

"And I have my own work, of course," Emma added. "Publishing, lectures, and so on. Glamorous life in the ivory tower and all. The hours are endless, but I cannot begin to imagine doing what you do. Are all of you in counseling or something?"

Chandler cleared his throat uncomfortably, Morgan's face surfacing clearly in his mind's eye. She couldn't have known.

"Oh, I'm sorry, that was – I mean, that's none of my business," Emma said hurriedly, mistaking his reaction for offense. She barreled on, trying to move past the social blunder, "If, um, you would like to see the result of my work, you are welcome to attend Monsignor Garnet's funeral. Would that be useful? Would the killer be tempted to go? That's a – that's a thing, isn't it? Or have I seen one too many episodes of Law & Order?"

Emma was rambling again. She pressed the side of her fist against her forehead and closed her eyes tightly. One day she would grow out of that.

"It has been known to happen," Chandler started, finding himself rather charmed by her babbling. At least he wasn't the only one with nervous habits. "Usually when there is a personal relationship between the killer and the victim, which does not seem to be the case here."

Emma huffed in response.

"With respect, you don't know what the case is here," she said, not meaning to sound quite as judgmental as it came out. "What I mean is that you don't know if the killer is actually trying to replicate the executions for political or theological reasons or if it was more personal than that."

Chandler had to concede that she made a very good point. He drew a breath to tell her as much, but was interrupted by a knock on his door.

"One moment, please," he told Emma before covering the receiver with his hand. "Yes?"

The door opened to admit Miles.

"I looked into Garnet's background," he started before being cut off by Chandler pointing one rigid finger in the air and pressing the phone against his chest. Miles nodded his understanding and Chandler put the phone back to his ear.

"Emma, could I phone you back later?" Chandler asked, looking pointedly at Miles, who responded with mouthing her name suggestively. Chandler scowled at him.

"Oh, yes, of course," said answered, only just realizing how long they'd been talking. "Though you needn't do so if you don't have any more questions for me."

She slapped a hand against her forehead and frowned. She was trying to not waste his time, not make him feel like she didn't want to talk to him.

"The funeral?" He asked, remembering that he hadn't yet given her an answer.

"Yes, yes, of course," she repeated. Her vocabulary shrank dramatically when she was thrown off balance. "The time has not yet been definitively set, but it will be on the 6th – that's, em, next week –" She trailed off, looking at the calendar on her laptop, "Wednesday."

"You'll call when you have more details?" He asked, trying, rather unsuccessfully, not to sound too eager.

"Certainly," Emma responded, trying, for her part, not to sound too pleased with herself.

There was an awkward moment of silence on both ends of the line.

"Erm, well, I shall talk to you later then," Emma said at last.

"Yes, speak to you later," Chandler answered before ending the call and placing his phone back in its place on his desk.

"Is that who you've been on the phone with this whole time?" Miles said immediately.

"It wasn't – what do you mean, 'this whole time'?" Chandler asked, irritated by Miles' surveillance. Miles opened his mouth to tell him exactly how long he'd been on the phone, but Chandler interrupted him. "You had something to tell me?"

Miles' mouth snapped shut. He smirked and rolled his eyes before looking at his notes.

"Yeah, there's nothin' there," he answered, clearly frustrated by his lack of answers. "No criminal history, no moving from parish to parish. They sent him to Rome, he came back when he was done, worked at St. Mary's in Chelsea, and then got transferred to Westminster Cathedral before ending up at the Liturgy Office. Real fast track. No rumors, no whispers, nothing."

Chandler sighed and rubbed more Tiger Balm on his temples. He glanced at the pot; he was running low. That would have to be remedied quickly.

"That's good news for Emma, but it doesn't do much to help us," said Chandler. "The only real good news is that if the killer is trying to reenact the executions on significant dates, the next one shouldn't happen until the 29th of November. It gives us some time, at least."

"Yeah," said Miles sarcastically. "So we can focus our attention on the nutters who come out for Halloween. Bloody holiday should have stayed in America where it belongs."

Chandler had to agree, to a point. He was sure it was all well and good for the children who got to wear fancy dress and be given sweets, but it was an absolute nightmare for law enforcement. There usually weren't many terribly violent crimes; rather, there were countless petty misdemeanors that did nothing but waste the time of all involved.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Chandler stood. He put his phone in his pocket and his watch back on his wrist. Rapping his knuckles on the desk once, he stepped around to the door, gesturing for Miles to precede him. Once out in the incident room, he called the attention of his team as he approached the whiteboard.

"We found the remains here," Chandler started, tapping his finger on the map. "On Lukin Street, in the churchyard of St. Mary & St. Michael's. Ed is looking into the historical significance of that location."

Chandler glanced at the scant information on the board before speaking again.

"Who's spoken to Garnet's secretary? Did he have reason to be in the area?" Chandler asked, picking up a marker.

"I did, sir," Mansell spoke up, flipping through a notepad. "According to her, he had a dinner appointment with the priest at Tower Hill. He was there on time, nothing unusual. Left just after dark."

Chandler began to write, but soon realized the significance of the location. He turned his head slowly to look over his shoulder at Mansell.

"Tower Hill?" He asked, his voice insistent. "Is that the name of the parish or the church?"

Questioning looks were exchanged amongst the detectives. No one had thought to check.

Chandler huffed in frustration, slapped the marker back in the tray, and fished his phone out of his pocket. He quickly typed in "Tower Hill parish church." The search results sent a chill down his spine.

"Oh my God," he said in a low voice, staring at his phone.

"What is it?" Miles spoke up, moving toward his boss.

"Tower Hill is the _parish_," replied Chandler, still looking down at the screen.

"And the church?" Miles pressed.

Chandler looked up at the eager, anxious faces of his team.

"The English Martyrs."


	3. 1 November

A couple of notes before we kick off this chapter. First, nearly all of the information I have for St. Mary and St. Michael came from a book called _A History of St Mary & St Michael's Parish_. It is available on Amazon should you want to pick it up (I got mine for $4!). Second, if you would like to listen to the music I reference at the end of this chapter, the Westminster Cathedral Choir (the very choir Emma is listening to) has a recording of Victoria's Requiem available on iTunes. The Introit is definitely worth the 99 cents it costs to download. I also recommend the version performed by Harry Christophers & The Sixteen.

As always, please read and review!

* * *

Buchan came bounding up the stairs, a thick file held triumphantly aloft.

"Joe," he called out as he strode toward Chandler's office door. "I have it!"

"DI Chandler's not here," said Miles, still irritated that Buchan referred to Chandler by his given name. It was one thing before he was hired, but now that he was his boss it seemed to Miles to be disrespectful not only to Chandler himself but to all the other detectives in the unit. Like he was trying to put himself above them.

Buchan stopped short, looking crestfallen.

"Oh," he said quietly. "Any idea where he's gone?"

Miles almost refused to tell him, but knew that Buchan wasn't about to share what he had with anyone other than Chandler. The faster Chandler found out, the sooner the entire team would know.

"The local," he answered gruffly.

"Thank you kindly," Buchan responded, complete with a quick bow of his head.

Miles rolled his eyes and turned back to his desk.

Buchan pulled his coat a little more tightly around him as he bustled to the local pub. It was late afternoon and the autumn air was cooling quickly as the sun set over the city. He entered the pub to find Chandler seated at a small table out of the way from the main thoroughfare. He was eating a sandwich and reading.

"Joe," Buchan greeted him as he approached. Chandler's head snapped up. He hadn't been expecting company.

"Ed," Chandler answered cautiously.

"Miles told me you were here," he explained.

Chandler nodded as he placed a folded sheet of paper into the book he'd been reading and set it, face down, on the table. It was no good, though, as Buchan owned that very book and recognized it immediately from the spine.

"Do you find her writing as engaging as I do?" Buchan asked, excited that he might have found someone with whom he could talk about Emma's work.

"It is…a bit beyond me," Chandler answered honestly. Truthfully, he had barely made it past the introduction. He wasn't used to reading things he didn't understand.

"I particularly enjoyed her use of the Ambrosian rite in her discussion on–"

"Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?" Chandler blurted out. He wasn't any more keen on talking about things he'd read and hadn't understood.

"Hm? Oh, yes!" Buchan exclaimed, opening his battered brown bag. He pulled out a file and opened it on the table. "I have the history on the location of the remains. It's quite an interesting church."

"Is it interesting for our purposes?" Chandler asked, trying to dissuade Buchan from giving him a full background if it had nothing to do with the murder.

Buchan nodded enthusiastically.

"It is where our story begins and ends," he said enigmatically.

Chandler drew a breath to speak, but Buchan shook his head. Chandler rolled his eyes. Of course, he didn't want his story interrupted.

"The St. Mary and St. Michael Church that we know today was not constructed until after Catholic Emancipation," Buchan began in an almost hushed tone. Chandler had to struggle to hear him over the busy pub. "While the Penal Laws were still in force, Catholics could not worship so freely and, instead, had to confine themselves to chapels in foreign embassies or, more precariously, clandestine chapels scatter about the city. Virginia Street Chapel was one such covert house of worship."

Buchan folded his hands on the table and paused before resuming his narrative.

"The chapel is so-named because its side sat along Virginia Street, which, in those days, ran all the way to the Wapping High Street," he continued, pulling out a map and running his finger along where the street had once been. "The entrance was here, in King's Head Alley, facing the river. In order to get to it, one had to navigate a tangle of courts. Though confusing, it was a handy way to shake a tail."

"Ed, fascinating as this is –"

"I am coming to the pertinent information, Joe, I was merely setting the scene," Buchan said archly. "Now, if I am to continue…"

"By all means," Chandler answered, hands spread wide.

"Accounts of the chapel's establishment differ, but what is clear is that one Father James Webb was the first priest to be appointed to the care of its souls," he said as he pushed the map aside and placed a photocopy of a portrait on the table. "By this man, Bishop Richard Challoner. You may recognize the name as that of the sixth form college that you would have passed on Lukin Street on your way to the church."

Chandler looked at the portrait and back up to Buchan, still waiting for the "pertinent information."

"Now, around this time, a man named William Payne, nicknamed the 'Protestant Carpenter,' found that he could make quite a handsome living, as one contemporary puts it, 'making people miserable.' He started with prostitutes, moved on to the poor, and finally began informing on priests. Payne created a climate of fear for Catholics in London. Most of the priests who were arrested were able to get off, but there were two cases, in particular, that did not end so happily."

Buchan paused again, taking out another portrait.

"Who is this?" Chandler asked, picking up the sheet of paper.

"That is Lord William Mansfield," Buchan answered. "He presided over Father Webb's trial, and many others of the priests against whom charges were brought. It is with thanks to him that this exercise in avarice on Payne's part did not end in bloodshed. He objected to many of the cases and succeeded in making himself quite a significant target for the Gordon Riots following the first Catholic Relief Act."

Chandler raised an eyebrow and placed the paper back on the table. He unsuccessfully fought the urge to square it off with the sheet of paper next to it.

"Just before Father Webb's arrest was the trial of Father John Baptist Maloney. While many priests were astute enough to prevent prosecution by refusing to admit they were priests, Maloney had, unfortunately, admitted as such in writing. The judge's hands were tied and Maloney was sentenced to life in prison," Buchan sighed dramatically before continuing. "For this, William Payne earned the princely sum of £100. It was great incentive to engineer the arrest of Father Webb."

Buchan glanced at his notebook before continuing, ensuring he had his dates right.

"On the morning of Saturday, the 25th of June, 1768, Father Webb was brought to trial at the Court of King's Bench Westminster after seventeen months' imprisonment in Newgate. Payne's reputation in conjunction with the witnesses called forward in Webb's defense led Lord Mansfield to instruct the jury to deliver a not guilty verdict if they felt even the slightest doubt. While Father Maloney had not been as lucky, and spent several years in prison before his sentence was commuted to banishment, Father Webb walked away a free man. He was the last man to be imprisoned in England for his priesthood. And it was in Father Webb's own parish that the first priest in nearly 250 years was executed for the same crime."

"Thomas Garnet had nothing to do with the location, then," Chandler said, looking back at the map.

"The chapel didn't exist until over a century after his death," said Buchan. "The only connection between this location and Garnet's time would have been the Stepney Martyrs, among whom were John Fisher, Thomas More, and Philip Howard. There is a plaque to these martyrs in St. Mary and St. Michael. But Thomas Garnet is not one of them."

"Why would William Garnet have been left there, then?" Chandler asked, more voicing his own thoughts than expecting a response.

"I might suggest you talk to Dr. Parker about the locations," Buchan suggested. "My local knowledge is limited for this period in history. Dr. Parker has worked specifically on the martyrs, so she may be able to connect the dots where we cannot."

Chandler nodded and glanced down at the book he had been trying to spend his supper reading. It was certainly worth pursuing and it gave him a convenient reason for calling her.

"Right, back to work, then," he said, neatly stacking Buchan's papers before placing them back in the folder he'd brought with him.

Once back in the Incident Room, Chandler gave an abridged re-telling of Buchan's findings, trying not to allow time for Buchan to interject any color commentary, as he wrote the information on the whiteboard. When he was finished, he turned to face his team.

"Alright, Mansell, Reilly, I want you looking at every second of CCTV footage from every vantage point you can find. The body was mutilated elsewhere, but he had to get to the churchyard from _somewhere_," said Chandler, tapping the marker against his palm as he thought. "And check with the cameras between Tower Hill and his home. Garnet disappeared somewhere between the rectory at Tower Hill and Westminster."

"Yes, sir," said Mansell obligingly. He'd already gone over the footage twice, but there was no use arguing with Chandler on that point. It was easier to just get on with it.

"Kent," Chandler said, turning to the young detective. "Try to find a connection between Garnet and this church. Why did the killer bring him to this church specifically?"

"Yes, sir," Kent echoed Mansell.

"Miles, I need to make a phone call," Chandler said, his voice quieting as he addressed his sergeant privately. "We need someone who has more familiarity with this subject."

Miles raised an eyebrow at his boss.

"Phoning Emma, then?" He asked.

Chandler frowned, but nodded all the same.

"I'd rather have her round here than Buchan," Miles commented.

"Ed knows what he's doing," Chandler chastised Miles lightly. "But she has more specialist knowledge."

Miles shrugged and put his hands up defensively. Chandler was never going to change his mind on his decision to hire Buchan.

"Go make your call," Miles said, jerking his head toward Chandler's office.

"Right," Chandler agreed, sounding slightly nervous.

"What did I tell you about girls and bullets?" Miles prompted him quietly.

Chandler gave Miles a long look. He hadn't forgotten, of course, but remembering what he'd said and actually incorporating it into his thought processes were two entirely different matters. Before Miles could give him any more dating advice, however, Chandler simply nodded again and strode quickly to his office and shut the door.

While Mansell and Reilly were busy watching CCTV footage, Miles stood, arms folded over his chest, staring at the whiteboard. He still wasn't completely convinced that there was a connection, but he knew from past experience that whatever seemed a coincidence at first glance often didn't remain that way. As he rocked from his heels to the balls of his feet, Miles wondered what had happened to all the ten-a-penny crimes they used to solve. When had an amateur historian become essential personnel?

"Where's DI Chandler?" Came a voice from the door. Miles didn't immediately recognize it. He glanced around the board and nearly whistled. The Savile Row lot. He wondered vaguely why Chandler hadn't been assigned there.

"He's in his office," said Miles, stepping into the walkway.

"DCI Campbell," the man said, extending his hand. He held a file under his arm.

"DS Miles," he responded with a nod, shaking the offered hand.

"You were the one that got stabbed by the Ripper, weren't you?"

Miles nodded again.

"Still chasing copycats?" Campbell asked, looking at the whiteboard.

"I'll show you to DI Chandler's office, sir," Miles said tersely.

Campbell raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He glanced once more at the board before turning to follow Miles.

Miles knocked twice on the door before opening it.

"Sir, DCI Campbell to see you from West End," Miles said, standing just inside the door.

Chandler, who'd had his phone in hand ready to call Emma, looked up at Miles before looking beyond him to Campbell. He put his phone back in its place on his desk, stood, and gestured for Campbell to come in.

"DCI Campbell," said Chandler, hand extended. "What can I do for you?"

"We have a…body, of sorts," he started, handing the file to Chandler. "Remains were found in a churchyard on Farm Street. Word came down that this was connected to a case you're working and that it was to be handed over to you."

Chandler looked through the photos in the file, his face going pale.

"Yes, this does look like ours," he said, his voice steady at least. He swallowed. "Have you identified the – the remains?"

"Just got the ID," said Campbell. "John Southwell. A priest, apparently."

Chandler nodded.

"Yes, definitely ours, then," he said with a nod. "Has any family been found? Ours was reported missing by a work colleague."

Campbell shook his head.

"Not yet, but we only found out who it was this morning. As soon as the ID came through, I was told to bring the case to you," Campbell explained, not sounding entirely upset that it was off his hands. "The remains are being transferred to your medical examiner right now."

"Right, thank you," said Chandler, walking back out into the Incident Room. Campbell followed him. "Anything else we need to know?"

Campbell shook his head.

"You have everything we know in there. We hadn't gotten very far," Campbell explained, watching as Chandler began to methodically add the case to the whiteboard. "Not as far as you lot with your case, it seems."

Chandler looked over his shoulder before glancing back at the information they had on the board for William Garnet's case.

"We have a different way of going about these kinds of cases," Chandler explained as he taped the priest's photo to the board.

"I see," Campbell agreed. "Well, ring us if you have any more questions."

"Certainly," Chandler said distractedly, his attention completely on writing the victim's name above his photo.

Campbell, feeling himself dismissed, nodded to Miles and left. Miles approached Chandler at the board.

"We've got another one, then," he said with a sigh. It was never just one murder anymore. Always serials.

"Start looking to his background," said Chandler under his breath. "We established that wasn't the motive with Garnet, but I don't want to leave anything out."

Miles nodded.

"Yes, sir," he said, returning to his desk.

Chandler finished taping what little the West End detectives had found to the board and returned to his office. He trusted Miles to explain the new case to the other detectives as they finished their assignments on the previous murder. He really did have a phone call to make.

"Dr. Emma Parker," he heard her say. He could also hear music. Singing of some kind.

"Hello Emma, this is DI – em – Joe," he said, stumbling over his words. He'd almost forgotten he'd told her to call him Joe.

"Joe," she said warmly. "What can I do for you?"

Chandler had quite a few answers to that question. None he felt comfortable saying aloud. It was really quite alarming the effect she had on him. He wasn't sure he liked it.

"Does Farm Street mean anything to you?"

"Yes, it's the –" she stopped. He heard her gasp. "Joe, can you hold on for a moment? I think I should probably get somewhere more…private."

The music became more muffled before he heard what sounded like a very large door open and close. Suddenly the music stopped.

"Are you at church?" He asked, wondering why she would have picked up her phone.

"Choir rehearsal for the funeral," she answered, sounding like her mind was elsewhere entirely. "Farm Street is the Jesuit parish. Their residence on Mount Street is just through the churchyard."

He knew that was important, but wasn't entirely sure why.

"Jesuits were the most reviled of all priests in the Elizabethan and Stuart eras," Emma answered, correctly interpreting his silence. "Haven't you ever wondered where the term 'Jesuitical' came from?"

Chandler could safely say that he hadn't.

"But why are you asking me about Farm Street?" Emma asked before he could say anything. "Is that where Monsignor Garnet was found?"

"No, he was found off the Commercial Road –"

"St. Mary and St. Michael?" She asked, her voice tight with worry.

"Yes," said Chandler. "You know its history?"

"Of course," she answered, trying – and failing – not to sound annoyed. "But what has Mount Street got…has there been another murder?"

"The same night as Monsignor Garnet's," Chandler answered.

"Who – who was it?" Emma asked in a shaking voice. She knew a lot of the priests in the area and all of the Jesuits living at Mount Street.

"We haven't yet contacted the family, I can't –"

"Tell me the damned name," Emma hissed, her worry and anger at the situation overriding any sense of decorum.

"John Southwell," he said with a resigned sigh. He heard a choked sob over the phone and grimaced in response. Twice now he'd made her cry.

Emma cleared her throat and swallowed thickly. At least she could help.

"Do you know the martyr connection yet?"

Chandler pursed his lips. Buchan was still in his archive looking for the Commercial Road connection.

"No," he said simply.

"Father Robert Southwell was a Jesuit in the sixteenth century and an associate of Father Henry _Garnet_," she explained. "The Society sent them to England together."

"Henry? Not Thomas?" Chandler asked, remembering that Henry had been Thomas' uncle.

"Yes, it seems your killer isn't entirely confining himself to the canonized forty if he killed Monsignor Garnet because he shared a name with Henry," she said. "I don't know how it could be a coincidence. Southwell was murdered in 1595, Henry was 1606, and Thomas was at least a couple of years later. Thomas Garnet may not have ever even met Robert Southwell. He may very well have already been dead by the time Thomas made it back to England."

Emma stopped speaking for a moment. Trying to recall everything she knew about the martyrs. It was hard to be ignorant of it as a Catholic in England, but the details eluded her without her books to consult. Except one.

"Henry Garnet was never was never drawn and quartered," she said suddenly, not yet fully understanding the implications herself.

"But Thomas was?"

"Yes, but Henry was dead before he was cut down. There is some disagreement as to the reason why this is," her voice became clearer as her mind wound its way through the facts. "Some argue that his full sentence was commuted by Charles, others say that the crowd pulled Henry's legs and he died before the executioner could cut him down. He was then beheaded and his heart was cut out."

"Then…"

"Then that means one of three things: the killer didn't know that; they are only focusing on surnames that match the canonized martyrs; or, they are of the opinion that Henry Garnet didn't receive his full punishment because the crowd killed him before he could be drawn and quartered," she explained, counting off on her fingers as she went. "I would bet on the last."

Her words reminded him of something Buchan had said at the pub.

"Do you know who Father James Webb is?"

"He was the first pastor of St. Mary and St. Michael, but it didn't exist as such at that time, it was the–"

"Virginia Street Chapel," Chandler interjected.

"Yes, how did you–"

"Our researcher found it," he explained, interrupting her for a second time. "He said that Webb was acquitted."

"Yes," Emma repeated. "Yes, he was and not everyone was happy about that. Payne, especially, was irritated that Lord Mansfield had insulted him in open court."

"Could someone think that he didn't receive his full punishment?" Chandler asked, wondering if they had finally hit upon something resembling a motive.

"There could be," said Emma slowly. "There were a lot of priests who were never charged or were acquitted during those raids, but Father Webb is conspicuous because he was the last to be imprisoned before the Relief Acts."

Both Emma and Chandler thought in silence for a moment. Chandler could hear the traffic outside the church on the other end.

"But why not go for a Webb if that's the point the killer is trying to make?" Emma asked. "Was it only the history of the location he wanted?"

"Is there something that connects John Southwell and William Garnet other than their surnames connecting them to Robert and Henry?" Chandler asked, trying to ground the case a little more fully in present circumstances and desperately hoping it wasn't as random as surnames. William Garnet's connection to James Webb was tenuous, at best, and there was nothing but names to connect him to John Southwell.

Emma took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she mentally catalogued everything she knew about the two men. Her mind had been such a mess since Monsignor Garnet's death that she hadn't had time to organize her thoughts. She leaned against the base of the one of the pillars flanking the entrance to the church.

"They were very different theologically," she began. "Monsignor Garnet was far more conservative than Father Southwell. The only thing that really connected them was their position on the relationship between Church and state. Do you think that could be it? It's hard to imagine it's something else, if anything, but so many of us agree on that point that –"

"What point?" Chandler stopped her before she worked her way into a ramble. "What was their position?"

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry," Emma apologized, realizing she hadn't actually told him. "They wanted no connection, no interference either way. Monsignor Garnet didn't want the Church to be controlled by the government and Father Southwell didn't think secular law should be that closely tied to personal beliefs."

"Was this public knowledge? Would anyone have known this?" Chandler asked. Perhaps they'd finally caught a break.

Emma shook her head before speaking.

"Anyone who'd gone to a talk, read an article – it's on the internet. Literally anyone could know," she said apologetically, though not quite sure why _she_ should be apologetic.

Chandler frowned and threw his pen down on his desk before picking it up and placing it back in its proper place. He'd been poised and ready to write down an orderly list of names to look into. He should have known from the first five years of doing this that things were never that easy. Never that neat. He really didn't know why he bothered trying to impose order on a world that seemed bent on chaos. He straightened his tie.

"It's at 10 o'clock," said Emma into the lingering silence.

"Pardon?" Chandler asked, having no idea what she was talking about.

"The funeral," she clarified. "You told me to – anyway, it's at 10 on Wednesday morning. I would suggest you get here as early as you can. Everyone short of the bloody queen will be attending. I don't think anyone will question me saving a seat, but you never know."

"Where is here?"

"Westminster," she said, continuing when she realized he might misunderstand, "Westminster Cathedral. Would it help if any of your other detectives were there? Perhaps at the back or along the nave?"

"One or two might not go amiss," Chandler agreed. She _had_ watched a lot of Law & Order.

"Good, well, then I shall get that squared away with the ushers and I'll see you on Wednesday," said Emma, not really wanting to end the conversation but knowing that she had to get back into the church for rehearsal.

"Indeed, I will ring you if I come up with anything else," he said, pleased with himself for being so forward.

"Please do," Emma responded rather more enthusiastically than she'd intended. She furrowed her brow, hoping she hadn't put him off.

He cleared his throat in response.

"Okay," Emma said quickly, knowing the conversation would only get more awkward from there. "Wednesday, then."

"Yes, Wednesday," said Chandler. "Good bye."

"Bye," Emma said, swiftly ending the call and going back into the church.

The choir was singing the Introit from Victoria's Requiem as she moved back to the pew she'd been sitting in to listen to their rehearsal. Emma was very powerfully reminded of what had happened and the full weight of her sadness hit her all at once. She didn't often let herself show much emotion in public, but at that moment, all sense of decorum and control was lost and she began to weep. She was quiet enough not to disturb the choir, but if anyone had but glanced at her, she would not have been able to hide it. Emma could only hope and pray that she wouldn't have anyone else to cry over by the time this case was solved.


	4. 6 November

Yes, I'm still writing! This chapter is not as well-edited as the others have been (though I'm still finding typos in those) because I wanted to get it up as soon as I _finally_ finished writing it. Hopefully I won't experience nearly as much writer's block with the next chapter as I did with this one. Please read and review!

* * *

Chandler, along with Miles and Kent, arrived at Westminster Cathedral one hour before the funeral was scheduled to begin. Chandler had never had reason to actually enter the church, but the red and white striped facade was a distinctive landmark amongst the limestone that dominated London architecture, which appeared almost drab in comparison. The cathedral's Byzantine aesthetic was an exotic stranger when compared to the English Baroque of Wren's cathedral or the Gothic towers of the Abbey. Chandler confessed himself amused by the metaphor.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his arm. He looked to his left to see Emma.

"Emma," he said by way of greeting. She smiled tightly in response. He knew well enough not be put off by it, he was sure she had all of her plates full at the moment.

"I only just got here myself," she answered, somewhat breathless.

"I've brought DS Miles and DC Kent with me."

Emma looked past Chandler and nodded to both men.

Just before the quartet reached the large doors, through which mourners already streamed, Emma's attention was caught by a priest standing in front of one of the announcement boards that flanked the entrance. She swiftly walked over to him, kissed both of his cheeks, and began speaking to him in what Chandler was fairly certain was Italian. After a moment, she gestured for the three detectives to come forward.

"Father, these are the detectives working on Monsignor Garnet's case," she said, switching to English for their sake. "Detective Inspector Chandler, Detective Sergeant Miles, and Detective Constable Kent."

The priest shook each of their hands vigorously.

"I hope you can catch whoever killed the monsignore," the priest said in a very thick accent. "He was a gift to our Church."

"This is Father Francesco Marini," said Emma. "He works in Rome for the Congregation for Divine Worship. He's known Monsignor Garnet for nearly as long as the archbishop."

"Monsignore and I were at the Institutum Liturgicum together," Father Marini elaborated. "He was, of course, some years ahead of me."

"_Of course,"_ Emma repeated sarcastically. She sighed and looked back toward the doors. "Well, shall we?"

Chandler followed her line of sight and allowed his eyes to drift upward, toward the mosaic surrounded by striped arches over the doors and further up, to the Latin text fixed to the stone.

"Domine Jesu rex et redemptor per sanguinem tuum salva nos," Chandler read out in rather stilted Latin.

"Lord Jesus, King and Redeemer, save us by your blood," Emma translated. "The cathedral is dedicated to the Most Precious Blood."

Chandler merely nodded in response. He allowed Emma to precede him into the church and watched as she dipped her fingers into the font on the inside of the door and crossed herself. She then pulled the lace shawl she'd had wrapped around her shoulders up over her hair. Stepping to the side, she fished a bobby pin out of the pocket of the black blazer she was wearing and pinned the shawl in place.

As Emma spoke softly to Father Marini, Chandler took in his surroundings. Despite all the lights being on, it seemed quite a dark space. While one would think the dark bricks of the domes and arches would enclose the cavernous space, it oddly gave the sense of some kind of endless horizon. Like standing in a country field late at night. A large painted crucifix suspended thirty feet over the altar dominated the front of the church while the central aisle stretched from where Chandler stood to the altar at a length of what he supposed was nearly three hundred feet. There were large pillars and slabs of marble of all colors and patterns and mosaics covered the interior of the domes and provided ornamentation for the brick arches. Chandler inhaled deeply. The church smelled pleasantly of candlewax and incense. It was…comforting, he thought.

Chandler turned around to find his detectives similarly engaged.

"Neither of you have been here before, then?"

"No, sir," said Kent.

"Miles, I want to you on the left and Kent, you will stay to the right," Chandler explained, gesturing toward the side aisles. "Since we don't yet have any kind of profile, take note of anyone who seems suspicious."

"Joe," Emma whispered suddenly, waving him and his detectives over. Apparently Father Marini had gone on his way. "I thought you should know that the St. George Chapel is over there," she said, pointing out the middle of the three chapels along the left hand side of the church. "It is also dedicated to the English martyrs."

"Why are there so many?" Kent asked, looking over at the chapel.

"So many what?" asked Emma.

"Dedications, memorials," he elaborated. "It seems everything has to do with the martyrs."

Emma stiffened. In the back of her mind she knew he hadn't meant it as an insult, one look at his face could show his innocence, but it felt like one. Perhaps it was the circumstances.

"It does well to remind ourselves what it can cost to be Catholic in this country," she whispered furiously.

"Alright, alright," Miles broke in, trying to restore the peace. Emma remembered herself and backed down.

"I'm sorry," she said. "We are all a little on edge. Especially the priests. They are all scared of saying or writing anything that might make them a target. Homilies have been particularly innocuous recently."

"How do they know there's a connection?" Chandler asked, concerned about maintaining some control over the information surrounding the cases.

"Diocesan grapevine," Emma explained as if it were obvious. "These men aren't stupid and news travels fast. Most of them probably knew Father Southwell was dead before you did."

"You didn't," said Chandler bluntly.

"No, I didn't. But I've been preoccupied with this," she said, gesturing toward the sanctuary.

The group began moving up the center aisle, Miles and Kent broke off about half way along to take up their posts along the side aisles. Emma and Chandler continued until they reached the front row of pews. There were reserve signs hanging from the sides.

"This is us," said Emma, gesturing for Chandler to precede her.

Chandler stepped into the pew and watched as Emma genuflected toward the altar and crossed herself before sitting as well. Without speaking to him, she pulled down the kneeler and settled herself onto it. Her shoulders slumped and she sighed as she rested her forehead on her folded hands. After several minutes she crossed herself and slid back into the pew before leaning down to put the kneeler back up. She glanced around the church, which had slowly begun to fill.

"Are you alright?" Chandler leaned over and whispered.

Emma turned back to face him.

"Yes, of course," she answered and then turned away again. "Could you excuse me for a moment? I just saw someone that I must speak to."

She was already stepping out of the pew when Chandler spoke.

"Certainly," answered Chandler softly, slightly unsettled by her odd behavior.

He took advantage of his solitude and allowed his gaze to wander around the church, taking note of both Miles and Kent before moving on, satisfied that they had the task well at hand. His eyes settled on an odd statue stood atop the gates to one of the side chapels. It looked to be a bird of some sort. A pelican, perhaps? He'd always thought of that as an Anglican symbol.

Emma returned to her seat as Chandler gazed contemplatively at the statue.

"A pelican," she said.

"Yes, I know," he answered in a rather more self-satisfied way than he'd intended. He hadn't known much of what Emma had told him since he met her. "But isn't that Church of England?"

Emma smiled indulgently.

"Elizabeth took the symbol on as her own, but it was ours first. It is a reference to the Eucharist, specifically the Most Precious Blood, hence…" She trailed off, waving her hand in the direction of the entrance of the church.

"Ah, yes, 'per sanguinem tuum salva nos,'" Chandler recited.

"I'm impressed," said Emma. "Few and far between are the men who can memorize Latin so quickly."

Chandler shrugged.

"Public school," he answered simply.

"I should have known," said Emma with a smirk.

Just then a bell rang clearly throughout the church, which Chandler assumed signaled the start of the service. He had only ever been to one Catholic funeral and it had been nothing like the spectacle he witnessed. The music was particularly sublime and he recognized one piece as the hymn the choir had been singing when he'd spoken to Emma on the phone the previous week. There were countless in attendance, filling the cavernous space to near standing room. Emma had been right when she'd told him that Monsignor Garnet had been well-liked.

Chandler glanced at Emma. He had thought that she would be more upset by the funeral. But she seemed positively serene, if slightly subdued. Over the years, Chandler thought he had seen the entire spectrum of human response to death. But he had never seen anyone quite so calm. It was almost unnerving.

When the last strains of the organ faded, Emma turned to Chandler.

"Would you like to meet the archbishop?" She asked.

"Does he not have to go to the cemetery?"

"Another priest will be celebrating the rite of committal. We had originally discussed it, but he didn't think he would be up to it. The Mass is one thing, but actually burying the body is another," Emma explained. "So, shall we?"

"As long as –"

"Trust me, Joe, you are working to solve the murder of his oldest friend. He will want to meet you," she assured him.

Emma led Chandler to the far right of the church, past the side chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin. They walked up a corridor that ran between the chapel and the outside wall before finally coming to a large wooden door, which opened into a large room with high ceilings, lined with long windows. There were dark wood cabinets and glass cases containing crucifixes, thuribles, and other golden items used for worship. Chandler was sure Emma could give him a treatise on every piece his eyes landed upon.

"Your Excellency, this is Detective Inspector Chandler," said Emma, gesturing toward him. "He is the detective working on Monsignor Garnet's case."

"Detective Inspector," said the archbishop, moving to shake Chandler's hand. He still wore his vestments from Mass. "Do let me know if the archdiocese can be of any help to you. Emma has been keeping me updated on her involvement and I want you to know that I am prepared to offer you any assistance you may need."

Chandler nodded in response.

"Thank you," he said, shaking the man's hand. "Emma has been of great help to our investigation."

Emma looked away to hide her blush and saw an altar server enter the sacristy, a folded piece of paper in his hand.

"Your Excellency, this was left for you," the young man said, holding out the piece of paper.

The archbishop took the note and opened it, suspecting it to be a letter of condolence. As he read, his eyes widened.

"What? What is it?" Emma asked in a panicked voice.

"It…isn't a message of condolence," the archbishop responded vaguely.

"Put it on the counter, nobody else touch it," said Chandler authoritatively. Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he held down the top of the paper so he could read the note.

"Who gave this to you?" He asked the altar server.

"One of the visiting priests," the altar server answered. "He said someone gave it to him just before Mass."

"Go get him for us, will you?" Asked the archbishop. The young man nodded and hurried out of the sacristy.

Emma came up behind Chandler and read over his shoulder.

"The Church of God must be purged," she read aloud. "That…doesn't make any sense."

Chandler looked back at her, his brow furrowed. Emma looked to the archbishop.

"We thought it was – that it was someone who was anti-Catholic," she said, staring at the note. "The only connection I could draw between Father Southwell and Monsignor Garnet was their position on the separation of Church and state."

"But purged of what?" Asked Chandler.

"Look at the signature," Emma gasped, pointing at the scrawled letters under the message.

"Pix?"

Emma shook her head.

"No, that's IX – they're Roman numerals. He's signed off as Pius IX."

"It's the Syllabus," the archbishop said suddenly. Emma nodded.

"The Syllabus of Errors," Emma agreed. She turned to Chandler. "It was a document promulgated by Pope Pius IX in 1864. It was a collection of phrases taken from earlier papal documents, all condemning the errors of modernism."

"How does this relate to –"

"The separation of Church and state is one of the errors," Emma said quickly. "We've got this all wrong. This is isn't someone re-enacting the martyrs. They're avenging them; purging the Church of errors, of those who are not faithful to the memory of Catholic oppression."

"We're looking for a Catholic, then?" Chandler asked

"I wouldn't say it's a certainty. Well, not a Catholic in full communion. It's possible it's a sedevacanist."

Chandler gave Emma a blank look. He seemed to be doing that a lot.

"It means, literally, 'vacant seat.' We have a vacant seat in between each pontificate. But this is a strand of ultra-traditionalist Catholics, or so they would call themselves, who believe that Pius XII was the last true pope. They believe that the seat of Peter has been empty ever since."

"Your Excellency," the altar server had returned, out of breath. "He's coming."

"Thank you, Thomas," said the archbishop.

Thomas turned now to Emma.

"Dr. Parker, there are some priests out here from Rome who are waiting to speak with you."

"Oh, I completely forgot," she groaned. "I will be right there."

Thomas nodded and left.

"Do you need me here for this?"

"I shouldn't think so," said Chandler, shaking his head. He drew in a breath to speak, but Emma raised her hand.

"No worries, Joe," she said. "I will speak to you later. And…thank you for coming."

Emma nodded with finality and smiled before turning on her heel and walking back to the sanctuary. It was high time they both get back to work. He was far too distracting.

The corner of the archbishop's mouth lifted as he watched the pair part. Though he wondered how much a detective and a liturgist could have in common, it was clear they were drawn to one another. So much so that the detective continued to stare at the door long after Emma had left. His attention was only diverted when the visiting priest came through the same door.

"You wanted to see me, Your Excellency?"

The archbishop nodded.

"Yes, Father…?" He was not acquainted with the man. He was certainly American and the archbishop supposed that he was a friend of Monsignor Garnet's from his days in Rome.

"Haskins, Excellency. Robert Haskins," he answered. "From the Diocese of Arlington."

"Well, Father Haskins, Thomas said that someone gave you this note for me?"

"A woman, though I didn't recognize her," Father Haskins explained.

"A woman?" Chandler asked, wondering why he hadn't guessed as much from the handwriting of the note. "Father, would you be willing to sit down with a sketch artist and describe her?"

Father Haskins shrugged.

"I suppose so," he answered. "Does this have anything to do with William's death?"

Chandler nodded. There was no point in keeping that secret.

"Whoever gave that note to you is either an accomplice or the killer herself," said Chandler gravely.

Father Haskins accompanied Chandler, Miles, and Kent back to the station that very afternoon. Chandler had tried to catch another glimpse of Emma as they walked back through the church, but she had already left. Once back in the incident room, Chandler introduced the priest to the police sketch artist and let them ensconce themselves in one of the more inviting interview rooms. He had found that if witnesses were allowed a quiet environment, their memories could be searched much more accurately.

As the minutes ticked by, the team anxiously awaited the outcome of the sketch. Chandler had barricaded himself in his office, unable to keep his _mechanisms_ from, frankly, annoying the hell out of his sergeant. Nearly an hour after Father Haskins had met the sketch artist, the pair returned, the latter of the two holding a folder in his hand. Chandler watched as Miles accepted it and saw his face change as he took in the drawing. He stood from his desk and walked out the door, only catching the tail end of what Miles was saying to Mansell.

"I'm telling you, it's the spitting image of her," Miles said in a whisper.

Chandler approached them and Miles snapped the folder shut.

"The spitting image of whom?"

"Joe," said Miles quietly. Chandler could felt his stomach drop. Miles never used his given name at work unless something was terribly wrong. "Let's go back to your office."

Chandler could only nod and follow his sergeant, staring at the file held at his side. Miles closed the door after Chandler had entered and moved to lean against his desk.

"This is what the sketch artist came up with after talking to the priest," said Miles unnecessarily, still trying to wrap his head around what he held in his hand. He opened the file and looked at it before taking out the sketch and holding it out to his boss.

But Chandler couldn't reach out his hand to take the offering. He could only stare at the drawing in shock.

"It's not possible..."

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED.

I usually don't write cliffhangers, but I liked the idea of it in this scene.


	5. 7 November

Still writing! I'm leaving most of my notes for the end of the chapter as I don't want to spoil anything. Enjoy!

* * *

"It can't be," Chandler muttered to himself for what must have been the hundredth time in the last twenty-four hours. He was sat at his desk, still staring at the rendering of the woman Father Haskins had described to the sketch artist. Even without any color, he knew the hair would be red and the eyes green. It _was_ Emma. But it couldn't be. It simply wasn't possible.

"She's on her way in," Miles' voice floated in through his fogged mind. Chandler's head snapped up.

"She's here?" He asked, sounding slightly panicked.

Miles shook his head.

"On her way," he answered. "I just told her we needed help with the investigation. Didn't want her coming in on the defensive."

Chandler nodded absently; his brain already jumping forward in time. How was he going to have this conversation?

"Sir, I can –"

"No," said Chandler immediately, cutting Miles off. "I'm not going staff this out."

Chandler sighed and rolled his shoulders. He hadn't slept well.

"Did you…?" He began hopefully, trailing off when Miles shook his head.

"We couldn't find anything to say either way. My gut says she's not involved, but I don't have any proof," said Miles, trying – and failing – to calm his boss. "If she has an alibi, it isn't one she can easily back up."

"She shouldn't have to," Chandler grumbled. "She isn't involved."

He'd said it enough to himself over his sleepless night. Maybe if he kept saying it, it would be true. But then he thought back to the funeral. She had been acting a little odd prior to the start of the service. She had snapped at Kent with little provocation and had expressed the same sentiment as they'd seen in the letter given to the archbishop. But her grief when she'd learned of Monsignor Garnet's death had seemed very real to him. Could she be that good of an actor?

Miles sighed and left his boss to his thoughts. Walking back into the Incident Room, he saw Kent staring intently at the sketch taped to the board. Miles approached the whiteboard and reached for the sketch, wanting to take it down before Emma arrived.

"Wh –" Kent started at Miles pulled the sketch off the board.

"She's on her way," he answered gruffly.

Kent looked again at the sketch in Miles' hand before looking back at Chandler's office. Miles knew that look. The boy had been suspicious of Morgan Lamb, too. He wasn't entirely sure what Kent's angle was, but it was clear he was protective of their chief inspector. They all were, if he was honest, but Kent's loyalty was more personal, even if Miles did owe Chandler his very life.

"Innocent until proven guilty," Miles reminded Kent.

Kent just short of glared at Miles before returning to his desk. Miles shook his head and put the sketch in a drawer.

Twenty minutes later, Chandler's phone rang. It was the front desk letting him know that Emma had arrived and that she was on her way up. He hung up the phone and picked up his watch and mobile phone. Standing, he put his suit jacket on, his hands shaking as he buttoned it. He clenched and unclenched his fists several times before nervously fidgeting with his cufflinks.

"Dr. Parker," Chandler heard Miles say beyond his closed office door. He sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it out before opening the door. Miles was already approaching with Emma.

"Why don't we go in here," said Miles, ushering Emma past Chandler.

"Okay," said Emma, sounding a little uncertain about the situation, but trusting the detectives. She entered the office and moved toward one of the chairs while Miles remained next to Chandler in the doorway.

"Technically we should be doing this in –" Chandler started in a low voice.

"What's technical ain't always right, _sir_," Miles responded sagely.

"Right," Chandler said absently, too focused on Emma. Then, facing Miles squarely, he said again, "Right."

Miles nodded and went back to his desk, closing Chandler's door behind him.

"Right, well," Chandler began nervously, sitting once more behind his desk. "Dr. Parker, I have some questions to ask you."

Emma's face fell. It was back to Dr. Parker, then, was it? Chandler regretted putting distance between them, but he felt it was best given the circumstances.

"Ask away," she answered in a false cheeriness that poorly masked her brittle voice.

"The priest who was given the note at Monsignor Garnet's funeral has given us a description of the woman who gave it to him," Chandler began.

"_Woman?"_ Emma blurted out. She knew it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that a woman could do such things, but she was also fairly certain it wasn't common.

"Yes," said Chandler. "The sketch artist came up with this…"

He trailed off as he took the sketch out of the folder and slid it across the desk toward her. Emma's eyebrows drew together as she stared at the drawing in confusion. She reached her hand out and lightly touched it, unable to comprehend what was happening.

"This…" She swallowed thickly. "This looks like me."

Emma's eyes snapped up to Chandler's.

"You don't think…that I…Monsignor Garnet…" She pursed her lips, unable string her thoughts together and trying to quell the nausea churning in her stomach. She drew in a deep breath through her nose and slowly let it out through her mouth.

"Dr. Parker–" Chandler stopped himself. "Emma, I have to ask, where were you the night of the twenty-fifth of October?"

Emma gaped at him, her mind unable to accept that this was really happening. She opened and closed her mouth several times in quick succession.

"I was…" she began, thinking back to the night in question. "I was at work and then I went home at around 8:30, I think. I don't remember what time exactly. It had already gone dark."

"And you live alone," Chandler said. A statement of fact.

Emma nodded. Chandler drew in a breath to tell her that he had to arrest her under suspicion of murder.

"My building has a doorman," she said flatly, sensing what he had been about to say.

"Wh – oh," Chandler answered lamely. "All –"

"There is someone at the desk twenty-four hours a day," she cut him off. Her nerves subsided in the certainty that she could prove her innocence.

"Is there no other way out of your building? A fire escape?" Chandler hated himself for asking, but he had to.

Emma's shoulders slumped.

"There is," she revealed. "It leads out the back, by the bins."

Chandler sighed. He really did not want to do this.

"Can't you at least tell me who's accused me?" She asked desperately.

Chandler shook his head.

"I'm sorry, I can't," he apologized. He opened his desk drawer to retrieve his handcuffs, but closed it, thinking back on what Miles had told him. But that was the only favor he could grant her. "Please stand."

Emma's breath caught in her throat and she nearly started hyperventilating as she realized what he was about to say.

"Emma Parker, I am placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder," he stated mechanically, trying to distance himself from what he was reciting. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand what I have just told you?"

Emma could only nod. She couldn't even cry; just stare in shock and numbly follow the directions he was giving her.

"I am going to take you down to one of the holding cells," he said, his voice softer. He continued, knowing he really shouldn't, "You are not going to be processed right away, but I would suggest calling your solicitor."

"I – I don't have one," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I've never…"

"If you can't find one, there will be one appointed for you," he offered.

Emma shook her head.

"I know some – I mean, I have some friends. Canon law, but they know…some of them went to law school, they'll know people," she stammered. "It'll be fine. I didn't do it."

She looked up at him, certain of her own innocence, but terrified all the same.

Chandler opened his office door to find the entire squad standing just outside, suddenly finding the papers in their hands especially interesting. He gestured for Emma to precede him, placing his hand on her elbow to guide her through the room and, given how pale she looked, to catch her in case she fainted.

He looked at Miles, whose eyes widened in shock when he realized what was going on. Chandler shook his head, trying to convey to his sergeant that he would explain later. The squad parted to allow the pair through.

Miles watched as Chandler led the shaking, unstable woman toward the stairs.

"This isn't right," he said in a low voice, almost a growl.

"Why not?" Kent spoke up. "That priest described her to a tee."

Miles glared at the young man.

"And what do we know about _him_?" Miles countered.

"What do you mean?" He asked, genuinely confused. "He's a priest."

Miles rolled his eyes. Kent really did show his age sometimes.

"Where did he say he was from?" Miles asked, sitting down at his desk. It was time to act like real detectives.

"Arlington," said Kent, looking at his notes.

"Did anyone phone Arlington to find out what they can tell us about him?"

Miles looked around the room. Blank faces.

"Well somebody find me the bloody number, then! I want to talk to the Arlington police!" Miles snapped at the team.

"Why the police?" Kent asked, already searching on his computer.

"Let's call it a hunch," Miles answered vaguely. For the first time in too long, Miles felt back in charge, like he was doing what he'd been trained to do and had spent his life doing, rather than relying upon the stories of the freak in the basement.

Within seconds, Miles had the number in hand and was punching in the string of numbers. He waited a few moments, wondering if he'd missed any numbers, then sat back in his chair when he heard the longer American ringtone buzz through his phone.

"Arlington County Police," came a distinctly Southern woman's voice over the line.

"This is Detective Sergeant Ray Miles with the London police," he said. "I need to speak with one of your detectives about a missing person and possible homicide."

The rest of the team, who had gathered around him, all exchanged looks. Homicide?

"One moment," the voice said.

Miles picked up a pen and held it at the ready while he waited to be connected, ignoring the questioning looks of the detectives staring at him.

"Detective Paul Tyler, Homicide," came an equally Southern voice, though decidedly more male.

"DS Miles, London Police," Miles introduced himself gruffly.

"You got a body of ours?" Tyler asked without preamble.

"Of a sort," said Miles vaguely. "We've got a man claiming to a priest from Arlington, but it doesn't feel right. Had any clergymen disappear on you recently?"

"Depends. Who's he saying he is?"

"Robert Haskins, Catholic priest," Miles responded. "He got himself involved in one of our inquiries."

"Yeah, I recognize the name," Tyler said. "Hold on a minute."

Miles tapped the pen on his desk as he waited. He could hear muffled voices, but couldn't make out any words, though someone was clearly angry.

"Miles," Tyler said, his voice clear again.

"Yeah."

"Can I call you back? About an hour? We're sitting on a guy we need to question and I'll have to go through my files to get you what you're looking for."

Miles grimaced, not wanting to put it off.

"Yeah, as soon as you can," he said before giving the American detective the number to call him back. As soon as he hung up the phone, he directed his attention to Riley. "Get on with the Diocese of Arlington and find out if they have two priests named Robert Haskins."

Riley gave her sergeant an odd look, but obeyed all the same. There wasn't much use questioning Miles when he was like this. She got on her computer to find the phone number. Her call yielded even less a result than Miles', as she was transferred to the Priest Personnel department only to be directed to leave a voicemail. She looked at her watch and counted back the hours on her fingers. They must have been away at lunch.

Riley hung up after she'd left her message and looked to Miles. The room remained silent for some time before the tension eased and the waiting began. Each detective busied themselves with some task or another, waiting for at least one phone to ring.

A little over an hour later, Miles phone rang, silencing the room once more. He quickly answered.

"DS Miles."

"We found the body of Robert Haskins in a churchyard a year ago," Tyler began, as if their conversation hadn't been interrupted. "Mutilated to hell and back. You think your guy is the perp?"

"I've got a hunch," answered Miles. "Can you send us your file? We've had two priests killed and left in churchyards in under a month."

"Well, shit," said Tyler. "Looks like we all caught a break. Some of these weird fuckers get off on getting involved in the case."

"Yeah," Miles agreed. "They do."

"So where am I sending this file?" Tyler asked. "Don't have much in it, but you might find something."

"Whitechapel," said Miles.

Riley's phone suddenly started to ring. She picked it up immediately.

"Whitechapel?" Tyler repeated. "You mean, Jack the Ripper Whitechapel? You guys must see crazy shit all the time."

Miles wished he could say no. They had only caught fairly straightforward cases until Chandler showed up. He vaguely listened to Riley trying to extract the information she needed without giving the details of the case.

"We get our fair share," Miles hedged, needing to get the news he had to the said bearer of "crazy shit."

"Well, I'll get that file out to y'all right away."

"Thanks," said Miles. "You'll be the first to know if we catch a break."

"Good huntin'," said Tyler before there was a click signaling that he had hung up.

Miles rolled his eyes. _Americans_.

"We're gonna be getting some important files in, so keep your eyes on your e-mail," said Miles as he hung up the receiver. Riley was still on the phone, but it looked like she'd gotten what she needed. Moments later, she too had answers.

"No one current," she said. "They had one, but he died last year."

"He was_ murdered _last year," Miles corrected her, already striding purposefully toward the door and ignoring the questions of the team.

Miles made it down the stairs to the holding cells in record time. Emma had been locked up for over an hour, but Chandler had remained, loitering near the entrance to the corridor of cells.

"Sir, he's not Haskins," wheezed Miles, totally out of breath. Chandler's eyebrows drew together in his confusion.

"Miles, what are you talking about?"

The sergeant had to take a few deep breaths before he could begin speaking again.

"I just spoke to the Arlington police," he explained. "They had a Robert Haskins turn up dead, same as Garnet and Southwell. There ain't anyone else in that diocese with that name. Our guy's an impostor."

Chandler stood motionless and silent in thought.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Miles prompted him.

"Pardon?" Chandler asked.

"Go get that girl out of her cell!" He barked at his boss.

Chandler jumped at the command, but complied without comment.

The pair followed the guard back to the cell in which Emma was being held and waited as the door was unbolted. Miles saw Emma's head snap up when the door was swung open. Tears were streaming down her face and there was unmasked terror in her eyes.

"There's been a mistake," said Chandler apologetically.

Emma sat for a moment, fairly shocked at the turn of events.

"You're goddamn right there has been!" Emma suddenly blurted out angrily. She wasn't usually one to use profanity and certainly not directed toward officers of the law. And _definitely_ not toward devastatingly attractive officers of the law who she fancied and who seemed to fancy her, but she was fairly sure the situation called for it.

"I understand you are upset," Chandler said in a soft voice, trying to calm her. An attempt which failed in spectacular fashion.

"You – you have no idea how upset I am!" She screeched at him, still standing in the cell. "What just happened, it's taken ten fuh – fucking years off my life!" She continued to yell, stuttering over the curse she had successfully removed from her vocabulary over the years.

Miles could only stand back and watch, fairly amused, as the normally dignified woman screamed obscenities as his boss. Miles wasn't sure if Chandler was taking it on the chin or too shocked to respond. The officer on duty remained likewise silent, deferring to the highest ranking detective for his cues. He supposed that as long as she wasn't hitting him, there wasn't anything for him to do.

"Can I go home now?" Emma asked after her tirade, finally lowering her voice even as the sharp edge remained. It was somehow worse than the yelling, Chandler decided.

"Yes," was all he said in response. It seemed to anger her even more, but she clenched her jaw and stomped out the cell, passing him without a word.

Chandler stood motionless and watched her go. In any other circumstance, Miles would have urged him to go after her, but given her current emotional state, he wasn't sure what she would do if Chandler tried to plead his case with her.

"Bullets do more damage, do they?" Chandler asked quietly, his eyes still locked on Emma.

Miles looked up at Chandler and back to Emma, saying nothing. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and erased Emma's name from the chalkboard affixed to the wall beside the cell door. It was a shame it wouldn't be so easy to erase the experience from Emma's memory.

* * *

As I understand it, British law has a much lower threshold for arrests than in the US, while it requires much stronger evidence for conviction in court. So that's why I thought it plausible Emma could be arrested after "Father Haskins" described/identified her. If not, well, I beg your indulgence for a greater suspension of belief. Hopefully there won't be quite as long an interval before my next chapter is completed.


End file.
